My Life Story
The creepiest day of my life occurred about six months ago
It'd been about three years since I'd played with a drummer, and I was really itching to play with someone -- anyone. Looking on the internet while I was home for Spring Break, I found a posted ad: "Guitarist wanted for Portland-area Misfits cover band." I knew that I didn't want to be in a Misfits cover band, but if these guys were into the Misfits, I knew they were in the right league, and emailed them to see if they wanted to get together and play -- you know, just for fun. I got a response almost immediately from the drummer, who was all gung-ho, and when I got back to Portland we got on the phone.
This is when I received my first hint of trouble. Listing off his other musical tastes and influences, my new friend named just about every bad-ass-image-obsessed metal band I've come to dislike over the years -- Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Cannibal Corpse for Christ's sake. A warning flag went up in my mind. Could it be that this guy doesn't actually like the Misfits based on any musical merit they may possess (though there are some, from whom I don't want to hear in the comments, that would say the Misfits have none), but rather their obsession with skulls and zombies and death?
Desperate to make some loud noise with anybody, I set a date with this guy. Saturday I would venture to his place, he'd call his friend who plays bass, and a good time would be had by all. If I only I'd known how goddam creepy things would get.
So the day came. Slowly driving down the street his directions had lead me to, looking for the house number, I saw some guy with five pounds of chains and spikes on his wrists, waving. "Sweet mother of Baby Jesus" I thought, "Please, God, don't let it be him."
It was him. Despite what you may think from my articles at the bottom of the archive, I'm not one to promote stereotypes, but I'll be damned if this guy wasn't the stereotypical metal head: Dressed all in black, sleeveless shirt, leather vest, boots, tattoos, zits, and missing teeth. He later proved to fit the traditional metal head mold of having both the IQ and hyperactiveness of a Boston Terrier.
"OK," I think, "so I have to spend a few hours with a couple of metal heads. I've had to endure worse." We took my guitar and amp into his place (Or rather, his mother's place. He lived with his mother.) and set up.
It was about this time that the bassist arrived. Not surprisingly, he was another metal head, though slightly more docile, it seemed. Quieter and able to sit still, it was clear who was the dominant one in their relationship. The bassist, however, turned out to be the source of the first frightening event of the day.
The bass player, as it turned out, was unable to bring all his "shit" with him, as the last people with whom he'd played still had it and refused to give it back.
"Fuck that," the drummer said. "Let's go kick their asses."
I was sure he was kidding, until he went to retreive his special, "more painful," spikes and strap them to his wrists. "You like to fight?" he asked me. "Seriously, we're gonna go beat these guys' asses if they don't give the shit back. You like to fight?" He pulled a beer from the fridge. "You want some alcohol?"
I answered no to both questions. Disappointed that I wasn't a fighter, he asked "Well can you at least give us a ride over there? You can wait in the car if you want."
Thankfully, though, before I had to make my pasny-assedness well known, the bass player was the first to wuss out.
"Man, I already called them. I had my mom talk to their mom. If they don't give it back I'm gonna call the cops."
I'd like to stop for a moment and point out that, despite what you may think of these guys so far, both were apparently very dependent upon their mothers. The drummer lived with his mother, who kept the fridge in their house well-stocked in lite beer, and the bass player apparently used Mother Dear to settle his property disputes with "those fucking assholes" who had his "shit."
Finally, after the bassist's explanation that he'd done all he felt he could, and I'd made it perfectly sparkling clear that I'm a total nancy-boy, the drummer calmed down enough to let it go.
Next we went into the drummer's bedroom, and I almost wished that I'd opted to sit in the car while he and the bass player went into those fucking assholes' house to beat some ass. The room was completey decked out in confederate flags. He had an 8-tape-long A&E documentary on Nazis sitting on out his VCR, along with "Faces of Death" and something called "Little Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Bodies." A gas mask was sitting out. Issues of "Guns 'n' Ammo." Ammunition. Metal band crap all over, and a shaven-headed girlfriend who, as she later explained, had been recently kicked out of her own home by her bitch of a mother and was now staying with our hero the drummer.
Having a new guest in his bedroom, the drummer wasted no time in going straight for his prize possession. "Hey," he said, picking up a black case from the floor, "you wanna go shootin' later?" From the black case he pulled a machine gun. I'm not up on my machine guns, sadly, so I'm unable to give you any more detail on the make and model or how difficult this gun would be to obtain, but something told me that from no legal channel in any civilized nation could this guy have obtained a gun as large and frightening as this.
I said no, that it wasn't really my thing to "go shootin'." "Aww," the drummer said, "it's fun," but gave it up and put the gun away.
To tell the truth, I probably would have liked to have shot the machine gun. I think it'd be a blast to shoot a machine gun. Not at anything, mind you, but just to try shooting one. Out of everyone I've ever met in my life, though, despite having only known him about an hour, this guy was the last person on earth I'd want to own a machine gun.
Also, every other word out of his mouth (and the bassist's) was some sort of racial slur. Over the course of the day, I found out such tidbits of information like: Both of them were on probation (which was apparently a large factor in the ultimate decision to pass on the ass-beating), and the drummer had done time twice for domestic violence.
Now, ordinarily, as soon as someone in my company uttered their hundredth or so racial slur, I might ask them what their problem was, and by the time they were waving their machine gun around, I'd be out the door. But the problem here was that my guitar, amplifier, and guitar head were all sitting in the next room over. You can't very well say "Jesus Christ, what's your problem? I'm getting the hell out of here," to a person when you have to follow up that statement with "Can you give me a hand hauling my stuff out to the car?" or make three trips yourself. It takes away from the dramatic impact, and gives them time to discuss amongst themselves whether or not they'd like to slit your Jew-loving throat.
So I played with them. We played a few Misfits songs together, but the rest of our session went something like this: "Do you know any Cannibal Corpse, man?" [BANG BANG CRASH UNCONTROLLABLE HITTING OF CYMBOLS] "No," I'd say a few minutes later, when the noise stopped for a second. "Do you know anything by the Ramones?" "No. Do you know any ..." and so on.
After roughly and hour or so of playing Misfits songs, I announced that I had to leave. I had homework. Yeah, homework, that'd make it clear what a fancy-lad schoolboy I am, and totally kill any desire they ever have to call me again. Yeah, I've got homework.
"Oh, OK man. Well here, let me give you some CDs you can borrow so you can learn some more songs we can play..."
Oh God.
"Here, I'll empty this CD case and fill it with shit for you..."
Oh Jesus.
"Let's see... Ozzy... Nugent..."
Sweet mother of crap.
"Here man, take these."
"OK," and I'm punching myself as hard as I can in the stomache inside my head. Seriously, how do you tell someone like this you hate their taste in music? Whatever the proper thing to say may be, you probably want to wait until you're out of firing range to say it.
The CD case he gave me had phrases and words (well, if you consider "666" a word) written all over it. "Burn churches," "Kill all Christians," and "Satan saves" are the only ones I can remember.
With my equipment loaded up in my car, and a grey CD case full of crap, I started the engine.
"So you think you'll wanna play with us again, man?"
"Oh, uh... sure.. sure.. you know, if school doesn't keep me too busy..." I began rolling up my window.
"So that's a yes?"
"Uh... sure.. yeah, you know.. I'll uh, let you know.." I finally get the window rolled all the way up, and I can't hear what he's asking now, so I nod my head yes and smile. I smile and nod all the while as I back out of his mother's driveway.
So here I am, safely back at home and seriously considering Caller ID, with the metalhead drummer's case of CDs sitting beside me, unopened since the day at his house when he slipped his most prized CDs inside, and I'm really not sure what I should do. Seeing as I have something that belongs to him, I'm afraid I may have to see him face-to-face at least one more time. And while neither of them have my home address, the drummer does have my phone number, and God only knows to what lengths they're prepared to go when someone with whom the bassist's mother hasn't consulted has their "shit."
This is when I received my first hint of trouble. Listing off his other musical tastes and influences, my new friend named just about every bad-ass-image-obsessed metal band I've come to dislike over the years -- Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, Cannibal Corpse for Christ's sake. A warning flag went up in my mind. Could it be that this guy doesn't actually like the Misfits based on any musical merit they may possess (though there are some, from whom I don't want to hear in the comments, that would say the Misfits have none), but rather their obsession with skulls and zombies and death?
Desperate to make some loud noise with anybody, I set a date with this guy. Saturday I would venture to his place, he'd call his friend who plays bass, and a good time would be had by all. If I only I'd known how goddam creepy things would get.
So the day came. Slowly driving down the street his directions had lead me to, looking for the house number, I saw some guy with five pounds of chains and spikes on his wrists, waving. "Sweet mother of Baby Jesus" I thought, "Please, God, don't let it be him."
It was him. Despite what you may think from my articles at the bottom of the archive, I'm not one to promote stereotypes, but I'll be damned if this guy wasn't the stereotypical metal head: Dressed all in black, sleeveless shirt, leather vest, boots, tattoos, zits, and missing teeth. He later proved to fit the traditional metal head mold of having both the IQ and hyperactiveness of a Boston Terrier.
"OK," I think, "so I have to spend a few hours with a couple of metal heads. I've had to endure worse." We took my guitar and amp into his place (Or rather, his mother's place. He lived with his mother.) and set up.
It was about this time that the bassist arrived. Not surprisingly, he was another metal head, though slightly more docile, it seemed. Quieter and able to sit still, it was clear who was the dominant one in their relationship. The bassist, however, turned out to be the source of the first frightening event of the day.
The bass player, as it turned out, was unable to bring all his "shit" with him, as the last people with whom he'd played still had it and refused to give it back.
"Fuck that," the drummer said. "Let's go kick their asses."
I was sure he was kidding, until he went to retreive his special, "more painful," spikes and strap them to his wrists. "You like to fight?" he asked me. "Seriously, we're gonna go beat these guys' asses if they don't give the shit back. You like to fight?" He pulled a beer from the fridge. "You want some alcohol?"
I answered no to both questions. Disappointed that I wasn't a fighter, he asked "Well can you at least give us a ride over there? You can wait in the car if you want."
Thankfully, though, before I had to make my pasny-assedness well known, the bass player was the first to wuss out.
"Man, I already called them. I had my mom talk to their mom. If they don't give it back I'm gonna call the cops."
I'd like to stop for a moment and point out that, despite what you may think of these guys so far, both were apparently very dependent upon their mothers. The drummer lived with his mother, who kept the fridge in their house well-stocked in lite beer, and the bass player apparently used Mother Dear to settle his property disputes with "those fucking assholes" who had his "shit."
Finally, after the bassist's explanation that he'd done all he felt he could, and I'd made it perfectly sparkling clear that I'm a total nancy-boy, the drummer calmed down enough to let it go.
Next we went into the drummer's bedroom, and I almost wished that I'd opted to sit in the car while he and the bass player went into those fucking assholes' house to beat some ass. The room was completey decked out in confederate flags. He had an 8-tape-long A&E documentary on Nazis sitting on out his VCR, along with "Faces of Death" and something called "Little Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Bodies." A gas mask was sitting out. Issues of "Guns 'n' Ammo." Ammunition. Metal band crap all over, and a shaven-headed girlfriend who, as she later explained, had been recently kicked out of her own home by her bitch of a mother and was now staying with our hero the drummer.
Having a new guest in his bedroom, the drummer wasted no time in going straight for his prize possession. "Hey," he said, picking up a black case from the floor, "you wanna go shootin' later?" From the black case he pulled a machine gun. I'm not up on my machine guns, sadly, so I'm unable to give you any more detail on the make and model or how difficult this gun would be to obtain, but something told me that from no legal channel in any civilized nation could this guy have obtained a gun as large and frightening as this.
I said no, that it wasn't really my thing to "go shootin'." "Aww," the drummer said, "it's fun," but gave it up and put the gun away.
To tell the truth, I probably would have liked to have shot the machine gun. I think it'd be a blast to shoot a machine gun. Not at anything, mind you, but just to try shooting one. Out of everyone I've ever met in my life, though, despite having only known him about an hour, this guy was the last person on earth I'd want to own a machine gun.
Also, every other word out of his mouth (and the bassist's) was some sort of racial slur. Over the course of the day, I found out such tidbits of information like: Both of them were on probation (which was apparently a large factor in the ultimate decision to pass on the ass-beating), and the drummer had done time twice for domestic violence.
Now, ordinarily, as soon as someone in my company uttered their hundredth or so racial slur, I might ask them what their problem was, and by the time they were waving their machine gun around, I'd be out the door. But the problem here was that my guitar, amplifier, and guitar head were all sitting in the next room over. You can't very well say "Jesus Christ, what's your problem? I'm getting the hell out of here," to a person when you have to follow up that statement with "Can you give me a hand hauling my stuff out to the car?" or make three trips yourself. It takes away from the dramatic impact, and gives them time to discuss amongst themselves whether or not they'd like to slit your Jew-loving throat.
So I played with them. We played a few Misfits songs together, but the rest of our session went something like this: "Do you know any Cannibal Corpse, man?" [BANG BANG CRASH UNCONTROLLABLE HITTING OF CYMBOLS] "No," I'd say a few minutes later, when the noise stopped for a second. "Do you know anything by the Ramones?" "No. Do you know any ..." and so on.
After roughly and hour or so of playing Misfits songs, I announced that I had to leave. I had homework. Yeah, homework, that'd make it clear what a fancy-lad schoolboy I am, and totally kill any desire they ever have to call me again. Yeah, I've got homework.
"Oh, OK man. Well here, let me give you some CDs you can borrow so you can learn some more songs we can play..."
Oh God.
"Here, I'll empty this CD case and fill it with shit for you..."
Oh Jesus.
"Let's see... Ozzy... Nugent..."
Sweet mother of crap.
"Here man, take these."
"OK," and I'm punching myself as hard as I can in the stomache inside my head. Seriously, how do you tell someone like this you hate their taste in music? Whatever the proper thing to say may be, you probably want to wait until you're out of firing range to say it.
The CD case he gave me had phrases and words (well, if you consider "666" a word) written all over it. "Burn churches," "Kill all Christians," and "Satan saves" are the only ones I can remember.
With my equipment loaded up in my car, and a grey CD case full of crap, I started the engine.
"So you think you'll wanna play with us again, man?"
"Oh, uh... sure.. sure.. you know, if school doesn't keep me too busy..." I began rolling up my window.
"So that's a yes?"
"Uh... sure.. yeah, you know.. I'll uh, let you know.." I finally get the window rolled all the way up, and I can't hear what he's asking now, so I nod my head yes and smile. I smile and nod all the while as I back out of his mother's driveway.
So here I am, safely back at home and seriously considering Caller ID, with the metalhead drummer's case of CDs sitting beside me, unopened since the day at his house when he slipped his most prized CDs inside, and I'm really not sure what I should do. Seeing as I have something that belongs to him, I'm afraid I may have to see him face-to-face at least one more time. And while neither of them have my home address, the drummer does have my phone number, and God only knows to what lengths they're prepared to go when someone with whom the bassist's mother hasn't consulted has their "shit."